Charades in the air
by conchepcion
Summary: For almost three years he has been Captain Martin Crieff. This has been without any dire consequences, until he's on the brink of solving it all. That's when the familiar pathologist stumbles in, and with her a myriad of chaos for all on-board Gerti.
1. Chapter 1

Two men wandered the well-carpeted hallways of a hotel, the shorter man giving a great big yawn, "I think I might actually go to bed now, Douglas," said the man stifling his yawn with the back of his hand, as the taller gentleman took to halt, "Already? Where is your sense of adventure Martin? We're in Paris!"

Martin frowned, "Sense of adventure? Paris hasn't changed since the last time we were here."

Douglas resisted rolling his eyes, only raising a brow tentatively at the younger man, "You aren't still sore about the princess, are you?" said Douglas with pursed lips.

Martin looked shifty-eyed at that, blinking hurriedly, "No – no – not at all, of course not, I'm fine - you know distance – of course it didn't work out – there was – and I am fine – I work too much – and of course it's just – she's a princess and I'm a pilot – it would never have worked out – so yes, I'm fine and that – of course – no, and I'm fine."

"You're obviously fine," said Douglas, "Well, if you're lying down I might just tempt myself down to the bar, and definitively not for any virgin screwdrivers."

"Right – great," said Martin taking to yawn again, "Do keep it to one drink, will you? We've got an early start after all."

"Yes, _sir _captain, sir," said Douglas clear sarcasm dripping in his voice, while Martin slowly trundled over to his hotel room, his card edging slowly towards the slot, and his fiddling quite evident, "I shall heed your warning. Now off to bed with you – you do look dead-tired, do try to take care of yourself, Martin."

"Yes, thank you. Well, night, Douglas," said Martin with a non-amused face.

"Good night, Martin."

Douglas took to walk to his own door, bringing his own card forward, and effortlessly entered his own room. Martin immediately stopped tinkering with his hotel door, his eyes lingering on the rather empty hallway, as he slipped his own hotel-card back into his pocket, before he strode down the hallway with a determined look on his face.

He could kill for a cigarette.

* * *

Marlboro lights, that's what the heavy-set man was smoking, which of course was in poor taste. He could have the decency to smoke plain Marlboro, but in most cases he couldn't be too picky, as he divulged the packet from the unconscious man's inner pocket. Another warehouse riddled with crates overflowing with drugs, the same trail, which continued everywhere.

Moran's methods were not elegant, as he was obviously more interested in money, than show. He was the man with the door, and no key. It wasn't exactly surprising, yet after getting rid of most of Moriarty's men he proved to be the most difficult to follow of the lot.

Sometimes he did crave the company of someone with a lesser intellect than him, he was assuming Moran had half-a-brain, which he clearly might not after all have, and then another person's opinions would certainly help in these instances. However it could all be a ploy, as he most likely had to be aware of someone following his _employees_. Not that his brother hadn't attempted to steer him off from some of his actual journey's that had any particular interest to him, which he assumed was a manner of telling him to resurrect.

He fetched the lighter from the thug with the gaudy picture of a bulldog, almost giving a laugh on the thought that John might find that amusing, as he lit up the cigarette in his mouth breathing in the delicious taste of nicotine. There were few moments he allowed himself to indulge, but after a quick fight with three men he earned it. Not that he broke any particular sweat over it, as he'd been doing it with such regularity these days that it became more second nature. John was usually the wrangler in these cases, but it was difficult not to overthrow a pair of thugs with low-class backgrounds – their stupid confidences regularly made them lose. They all did come from the same creed - all picked up after spending some time in prison, which was evident by some of the self-made tattoos, and the clothes that were clearly out-dated. He would have to move on, as there wasn't much to pick up from there after all. It was too easy really, Moran leaving breadcrumbs that were too large not to notice. He was obviously covering for something more nefarious, or so he hoped, or else he would just let his brother deal with the supposed-mad-man. It was difficult to know, as he'd yet to meet the man, and he was in firm belief that none of the crew he worked with was worthy the brand exactly.

Despite the idea being amusing if Arthur was in fact a criminal mastermind toying with them all with his games of "yellow car".

No, that would not happen again.

Moran was his own man, and clearly no copycat of Moriarty. His games might be brute strength, but he was clever in his own right. Making his clues so obvious, that they weren't in fact clues, and as Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the warehouse to find a limousine on the outside he resisted snorting over the obviousness of his own big brother.

He threw the half-smoked cigarette away, promptly throwing the half-full packet too, before pocketing the lighter, as he stepped into the car. A dark haired woman sat inside, texting on her camera phone, as he drily said, "Anthea."

She gave no reply, as the limousine drove off.

"Perhaps a tad over the top, Mycroft? I thought the government prided themselves at being discreet," said Sherlock out into the air, as the voice of Mycroft Holmes soon spoke over a speaker, "There is no time for hiding anymore. He is on to you."

"Obviously," spat Sherlock, "Do you have any news, or is this meeting specifically arranged just to annoy me?"

Mycroft sighed, "Yes – your flight plans have altered slightly."

"Another alteration?"

"Yes, indeed. You will have a passenger on-board whom I would try my best to avoid if I was you, but it is for their benefit that they are on your route. The closer they are, the further anyone will assume anything. We might derail Moran for a moment longer."

"Who is so important, then?"

* * *

Sherlock's hands shook, as he walked quickly, slipping his card into the slot of his hotel door, until he entered his room faltering ever so slightly, as breathing was more difficult than usual. Of all the names to hear amidst his three years, journeying across the world being Martin Crieff - he had not expected it to be Molly Hooper.

**A/N:** whytejigsaw has made her own version, and you should go check it out. I hope you enjoyed this, some of you might have seen this bit already, but surprisingly enough the second part will be up tomorrow. Wow, I know. I have to get out the plot-bunnies, so I can do some work on the rest, I suppose.


	2. Chapter 2

"Goodbye," she said in a small voice, the words almost catching themselves in her throat, as her hand gave a tiny wave out of pure impulse.

_Silly,_ she thought, unlike her patients who knew not to move, knew when not to talk, and were probably more use to him, than she was, except she'd been exactly what he needed. The only woman for the job, the only woman who'd have to keep a secret that made her heart sink and float simultaneously.

She felt important, then not, since he couldn't bring her, he wouldn't call her, and he would not breathe a word for however long it would be. Here he was, still standing in front of her, alive and well – not a bloodied mess, not a shadow of a man, but she could see the darkness growing in his eyes, which made his jaw set, as he slowly wrapped himself into his dark belstaff coat.

It would be the last time he'd haunt her hallways, tearing her heart to pieces with whatever idiotic statement. It would all become a memory, just like her father and her mother. Her lips trembled, as she tried to blink away the unrelenting stream of tears that would soon pour down.

"Molly," he spoke softly, and she wanted to cry out for him to leave, to go, before she did something she'd regret.

His eyes looked haunted, almost lost, when he looked into hers, and so – with eyes clenched shut, tears pouring down her hot cheeks she pulled him by his lapels, drew him down to her level, and gave him a soft chaste kiss, tasting his lips and her own tears.

She pulled back, quickly releasing him, not managing to say a word as she hurriedly looked down. It wasn't until she heard the door snap shut that she finally allowed herself to crumble down to the floor into a sobbing mess.

This was the only moment she'd ever allow herself to mourn a man who was still alive.

Almost three years had past, she'd avoided counting the days, but it was in her head – a vast number, which she'd rather not mull over. For when the first month past she expected him to stride around the corner, then the six months, then the year, and suddenly time past in such a rapid speed that she couldn't wrap her mind around it. There hadn't been a word, not a single one, not an empty post-card, not a letter, not a text – nothing to confirm whether he was still alive or dead.

She'd find herself reading every single article in the papers, pouring over the small notes on men being killed in other countries, since she highly doubted he was in London. He wasn't there, even how much she wanted him to be walking in the familiar streets of the city, as her heart would leap the minute she'd spot a man who looked like him. Dark coats were in the end just regular clothes - curly hair was just another hairstyle – handsome men were just men.

She was just hoping that she wouldn't find him properly dead – that he wouldn't pop up on the front of any paper – and she'd know there was no friend for him out there. She didn't know whether or not she was the only one who knew, but she was certainly the only one who was pretending her life had moved on from him. It was lies upon lies that made her finally think a holiday would benefit her, but the one-week holiday turned into months.

In the end she knew that she wasn't on a holiday, she was only searching, only hoping for a word – for even the slimmest hint of his being still alive – his heart still beating somewhere out there. She knew he could take care of himself, but he'd sought help from her - _her _of all people. Despite his speech that night, she still felt inclined to dabble in the idea that she was just a part of a plan, just another object, and despite it – the quietness of him made her believe it.

This time, it was going to be her final journey, her final trip, before she'd go home, give up, and try to actually live by the words she kept repeating to every one else. There she was, with a slight tan, unusual to her rather pale exterior, but spending hours underneath the sun did that, she supposed. She was half-pleased, spending money on frivolous things, instead of just keeping it for a future she was never certain she was actually going to have. Again, like always – a man would make her stop – whether it was by his height, or his hands, or just the way he carried himself.

She almost laughed – another illusion, in the middle of an airport this time, and she found herself giving the man a proper look. He too was pulling a small hand-carry around, a hand in his pocket, as he walked in his uniform – a pilot. The hat was proudly perched on top of his head, hiding away his ginger waves. She was being silly, wasn't she? – Now the man didn't even have the same hair, and she still thought it was him.

The minute his face turned around, her heart leapt, her steps quickened, and she found herself unable to stop, but she couldn't say his name. She couldn't cry it out to stop him, there was no way she could, and so she just tried to reach for him, before he disappeared – before turned into just another man.

* * *

The nights when he could be himself were often a pure relief; a moment to breathe deeply, to unclench the strain of an act. Except last night he felt more inclined to irrationally buy a packet of cigarettes and smoke until his voice got gravelly.

He didn't, despite the want coursing throughout his body, as he knew Martin wasn't entitled to, Martin didn't do that, and by all facts he was Martin Crieff. He was predictable Martin, who kept the straight and narrow – who did not indulge in addictions, who did not brood over a woman. The latter was certainly a lie, for the one who wouldn't allow it was himself.

His intentions were clear, as he dressed himself much more sharply than usual, picking up on the tiny threads that hung around his uniform – he wasn't going to see her – he would only bring her to her destination, and that would be it. They needn't ever talk, she didn't ever need to see him, and she didn't ever need to know.

"_They know she was involved."_

"_How?"_

"_I suppose Moran thinks differently than Moriarty ever did."_

"_Is that supposed to be a comfort, Mycroft?"_

"_No, it's a warning." _

Mycroft had her followed of course, typical of him to have surveillance on all, but he had not expected her to be tracked on her supposed holiday. A holiday he'd barely heard a word breathed of, _"I thought it better you didn't know."_ He liked knowing that she was in the morgue, that she was there, that life moved on, and that she was keeping everything a secret.

He was impressed by it, but somehow the minute he knew she'd gone out of the country he was lost as to why. She never went on holidays, not once while he _lived,_ and he tried to reason with himself why she'd gone on such a long one. He knew why, he just wouldn't allow himself to think it, to even consider it properly – the woman who counted showing him that he too was important, even now when life was supposed to have moved on from him.

Yet he wouldn't allow himself to indulge, to be later than usual, or any of it – he would be earlier instead, even by Martin's standards, and he would get on board without a single hitch, except with a brief glance behind him; that entire idea got lost, when he saw a pair of brown eyes widening at the sight of him.

He tried to hunch a little more - to walk even more sluggishly, even if Martin was supposedly proud of the uniform he bore - he hoped it would deter her.

He could stop, though that would give him away, so he kept on with his pace, hoping she'd just think she imagined it - "Excuse me?" her voice called out. In a small part of his mind he could almost hear Martin Crieff say, _Oh God_ out of sheer sympathy.

One idea was to walk off, back straight, never turning around, and somehow giving her what she wanted – another was to say her name, and then walk away, but those ideas were thrown aside as he wheeled around, putting on a goofy smile, "Oh – do you need any help – miss?" he said fidgeting ever so slightly.

She looked up at him, blinking rapidly, as she looked confused, "Err – no – I – I just thought you were someone else - my mistake," she said, and he could have let it go, he should have let it go, but Martin couldn't.

"Really?" he said with a grin, "Someone nice, I hope?"

She looked properly flummoxed, fumbling for a few seconds, as she bluntly said, "Oh – he's dead – actually."

Molly did always have her way with words, and her sheer presence was relief that no cigarette could give. She was proof that everyone was fine, that he had done the right thing, and she was once again close and he was once again lying to her.

He almost laughed; it was certainly like the old days.

"Oh," he said looking properly disturbed, blinking, even biting his lip – in the end he knew where Martin's odd quirks came from, all those strange little mannerisms that were second-nature to him – the living proof of them before him.

"I'm – sorry – I just – you look a lot like him, just," she said scrunching her nose, and giving him a scrutinizing look. She was still not convinced, and he found himself almost smiling at the thought of her trying to figure him out.

"Was he – erm – nice?" he said with a raised brow, trying to look uncomfortable in her presence.

She looked rather unsure at that, opening and closing her mouth, until she without thought said, "No."

He didn't intend to laugh, though Martin would have, so he did, "Well – right – that's nice, I suppose, I've never been compared to a dead not-nice man before," he said with his odd Martin-grin.

"Sorry, it's just – I'm just seeing things I suppose," she said with a frown, silence leaping over them both, and it would have ended there – she would walk away, and he would go to Gerti, until he actually had to take off. Except, someone saved that scenario from ever happening, as Douglas surprisingly early appeared too at his side.

"Martin! Who is this lovely young lady?" said Douglas clapping his large hand on his back, all while giving Molly a charming smile. Molly smiled in return giving to flush, and Sherlock found himself annoyed that just Douglas's presence was enough.

Sherlock flinched at the slap in his back, "No – errr," he started, faltering, as he saw her sad eyes.

Her eyes that were for a few seconds ago filled with hope, but here he was being awkward – and all hope was lost, only a small weak smile grazed her features now.

"I'm Molly Hooper," she said with a forced smile to Douglas, who shook her hand.

"And you know our Martin, then?" said Douglas, when he released hers.

"No – I don't – I thought he was someone I knew, just," she said finally smiling properly again.

"Really? I've always seen Martin as odd-looking myself, not many men who he can be similar to."

"Thank you, Douglas," Sherlock said with gritted teeth – both for his and Martin's benefit.

Molly blinked at that, clearly realizing the same. He almost threw Douglas a withering look, "We have a plane to catch, Captain," said Douglas suave, giving to wink at Molly.

"You're a Captain?" she said surprised.

"Yes – yes – I know – I don't look like one, do I?"

"No – no – you do," she said unconvincingly.

She was such a terrible liar; he was surprised that no one knew he was alive with her skills of conviction.

"You'd still have time for a coffee though – wouldn't you - _captain_," said Douglas pleasantly raising his brows at the pair, "Pleasure to meet you, Molly," and he walked off giving Sherlock a knowing look, until he glanced at Molly.

_Yes, do try to be less obvious, Douglas. _

Now he would have to have a coffee with her, at least to convince her he wasn't who she thought he was, but even he wasn't convinced by that lie. Though, there was no one she was safer with than him, so he gave a performance he'd marvel over for years to come. One entirely identical to one she'd done years ago, as he smiled at her rather uncertainly, before saying, "Would you like to have a coffee with me?"

**A/N:** I liked writing this chapter, so I hoped you liked this chapter. First time doing Cabin Pressure at all, so I hope I am somewhat successful in my attempt. However Sherlock it is.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you to those who review, follow, favourite and want more - hopefully you'll want more after this too. One can only wonder.

* * *

Certain things had changed since last they'd seen each other, granted it had been some years, for she wore her hair untamed down her shoulders, the ends curling up – the shades of auburn revealing themselves in her hair, due to extended stay under the sun. A few freckles spread over the bridge of her nose, even, easily overlooked, if one hadn't been paying attention, and that her face seemed fresh; cheeks flushed, lips rosy, even without a trace of makeup. The sun had done her good; obviously she'd been only in warmer climates, which he knew she deserved, as she'd always hid in dungeon-like areas embracing pale skin and vitamin d-deficiency.

Yet, some things never changed.

She was the only person he knew who'd always look him in the eye when they spoke together, never avoiding his gaze, even if she said something less than serious, and she was doing it now too. It was unnerving having a pair of blazing brown eyes peering at one, with such reverence, such belief in his brilliance, but now she was doing it again, except he wasn't himself.

He'd even gone for a ordinary black coffee just to misdirect her, though Martin's tastes didn't differ from his, but he knew that if he'd ordered "Black with two sugars," like she did with a small smile on her face, then his cover would be blown. He almost hesitated at her order, furrowing his brows, and wondering if she was still disbelieving his identity, with all right to, of course.

For there was curiosity in her eyes, as she was clearly to his amusement trying to figure him out. She still didn't believe him apparently, even if his arms moved more fidgety, even if he was hunched in his seat, and even if he grinned foolishly at her prolonging an awkward silence for effect – after all Martin was a lost cause when it came to women.

In another life, Molly would perhaps be the one who'd be nervous, but she wasn't – he assumed the years had given her time to unclench around him, despite the fact that he wasn't in fact himself that was.

"You're a pilot, then?" she said, surprising him by actually starting the conversation, as he half-expected her to wait for him.

"I suppose that's a bit obvious," he said adding a chuckle, as he lifted his hat off his head, settling it down on the table giving the air of being flummoxed. Martin did like keeping it on, distinguishing his position in life, though the uniform would have been a dead giveaway itself.

"And a captain," she said, but it wasn't a question, her eyes were half-narrowed at his uniform.

"Yeah – even if looks are deceiving," he said with a grin.

Molly bit her lip at that, giving to smile a bit, "Do you often ask your passengers out for a coffee?"

"I – no – I can barely afford this coffee as it is," he said with an awkward grin.

"I thought pilot's were well-paid?"

"Yes - some pilots _actually_ do get – paid - except I don't."

"Why not?"

"They really can't afford me."

"Are you that good, then?" she said with a tentative smile.

He blinked, that wasn't exactly the way he had hoped it would go, and in some ways he had hoped that Martin would chase her away, except that theory was proving faulty.

"No," he said.

Molly frowned, "So, I can't trust you flying this plane?" she said with a raised brow.

Answering in negatives would of course increase the chances of her not going, and she needed to be on Gerti. It was imperative that she was safe.

"Yes – of course – yes – you can."

"So - you're probably quite good?"

"I – err – suppose I am – enough about me – what do you do?"

He was going to go for squeamish really. The final salvation, the little splatter of hope, but - Molly gave a sad sort of smile, one that he recognised – the one she bore before presenting herself to anyone in the belief that they wouldn't like what she'd have to say next, and Martin's fear for blood was easily forgotten.

He knew she wasn't unfamiliar with hearing the word_ freak_ like he was, despite her ever so sunny disposition in the ground floors of the hospital, hidden away from other people's eyes – she did care, more than she showed.

She took a breath, "I'm a pathologist."

"A - _what_?"

"I work with dead people," she almost laughed, but she seemed to avoid it, as she was studying his reaction.

"Like a mortician?"

"No, I don't make them pretty – I just find out what happened."

"Oh, right - that sounds interesting."

She'd been avoiding his eyes the minute she'd said it, and he was astonished that she hadn't judged Martin – even if he wasn't paid.

"Really?" she said meeting his gaze, her face lighting up instantly.

"It does - actually," he said with a nod.

He was supposed to keep her away, except he couldn't. He knew what she was going through, but unlike him she knew how everyone else were.

He'd love to get a word, that's what he excused himself for, what he wanted to believe in, besides the fact that she wasn't overly nervous around him, for he was the one supposedly fumbling around her, "Good, I usually – never mind – so we better go, or the flight might never take off," she said, "Even if I'm with the captain of the plane."

"Oh, yes – right – let's go," and quite possibly it was the end of that, but as she stood up with him, and they both started to walk away he knew it wasn't the end. No, they'd barely grazed the beginning.

* * *

He was handsome, but odd. Definitively very un-Sherlock like in all ways imaginable, but there was just something she felt she was missing. Molly sat looking out of the window, taking in the fully-stocked plane, which certainly caught one of the flight attendants off guard; one of them a young man who was fidgeting a bit, and had during the whole of the emergency demonstration.

When they'd finally taken to the air, after a rather fumbling message from Captain Crieff over the speakers she found herself wondering idly if she'd been imagining things really, since nothing in their conversation could pin-point that he was in fact Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he'd just gotten very lucky facial-wise, despite how much a part of her was disbelieving that idea? There was something so entirely wrong with the set-up that she didn't fully know.

In the end when Arthur started making his rounds with the trolley, she had to ask, "Hello-,"

"Would you like some tea – coffee – biscuit – sandwich -," he said with a cheery grin.

He loved his job obviously.

"Oh no – I -," she said.

"Oh, that's a pity, since the biscuits are really good – chocolate even," he said showing her one.

Molly tried to hide her smile, "Err – actually – I wondered – your captain-"

"Oh – skip! Do you know him?"

"Barely, really – I just wondered about how long he's worked with you – this company, I mean?"

He looked puzzled, but he answered with a cheery grin, "Almost three years, now. He's brilliant, skip is."

_Three years. _

Molly found herself even more conflicted and confused; it had to be a coincidence, right? Since she could barely imagine Sherlock handling any vehicle, much less a plane.

* * *

"How was it, then? It would be easier if you just answered the question, since then I would let it rest," said Douglas causing him immediately to grimace. He had the same inane persistency that John owned at times, especially when it came to things that they considered their particular field; _Women._

"Fine, it was – it was _fine_."

Douglas smiled, "Now – see – that didn't hurt, however – in what way was it fine?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Douglas – I thought you wouldn't be asking anymore questions?"

"I lied. She is on board after all – Molly Hooper, single, and alone on a holiday to Wien."

They'd been less than twenty minutes up in the air, and yet he persisted in wanting to know every detail. Sherlock's mind was already full with other grievous thoughts, circling Molly, without having to talk about their cup of coffee, which was by all standards – fine.

He'd rather focus on the fact that she was in danger, but he needed some sign. Some clue as to how and in what scale she would be in danger. Yes, she was being followed, but they hadn't done any harm to her. Not even now, when she'd more or less met him, but did they know who he was? That he couldn't be sure, and his brother's notion that "the closer she is to danger, the safer she is from harm," might be in some ways clever, at least clever enough to spare her life, even if his was a lost cause.

"We are going to be three days in Wien after all," said Douglas knowingly.

Wien was his final destination, the one place that all of the paths he'd taken had crossed; a place of rumours, of whispers, and maybe after Wien he could resurrect. Of course it had to be her last trip, of all the places she could have chosen – she had picked the most dangerous, which was most likely why Moran's scope had narrowed upon her.

He believed most certainly that Molly was feigning ignorance, when she had just been very lucky. She had found him and Moran on the same day, without hardly ever trying, and he found himself pleased with the idea that he could have followed her around to end up there much quicker.

She was however in danger, in what size he did not know, but he knew that Moran would certainly display his colours very soon. The closer they got, the more likely he would do his best to make them aware of his threatening persona. He would most likely never do direct contact in the way that Moriarty ever did, and that was the one positive aspect. However, it was most likely that he'd kill them, before humouring himself with divulging any of his strength or plan.

"We've been in Wien plenty of times too you know," he said trying to remain calm.

"Yes, but there's a potential lady-friend, who might not be a princess, Martin, but I don't see the problem of getting better acquainted with her, after all."

_The Princess_, previously known, as Irene Adler had approached him out of sheer sentiment. He had been impressed by her scale of misleading him, using his weakest impulse – affection as a form of hiding her own secrets, and she'd done it again. Feigning being flustered came easily to him, as the woman had created once again a significant persona, only to warn him of his most likely impending death. She meant he should stay dead – with her, but he was never one for staying buried.

Secrets, lies and deceit were fun – in a handful of moments, and she was the very essence of those things. But trust her implicitly – he could not. No one was surprised when Martin Crieff had lost the princess. No, she only reminded him of how much he wished to be himself with her disguise - to once more be Sherlock Holmes, but that man was lost at the moment – a liar in the media's point of view. To recover him, he would have to end Moran, and the last trace of Moriarty.

"It's too complicated to try to have a relationship with anyone – I'm either flying or being a man with a van – I've got no time," and in some ways that statement was true to him, as it were for Martin.

Arthur came bounding into the room, "Hello Skip – Douglas – righto – well -we've got a passenger on board who sees dead people," he said in rapid speed, with one breath looking terribly nervous.

"I'm sorry?" said Sherlock gaping. He knew whom Arthur was referring to immediately, but Arthur surely had a way of phrasing himself from time to time.

"Is this is the point where you inform us that we're all dead? – Since I do hope for a day off at least," said Douglas with a smirk.

Arthur looked agonized there he stood, "No – I mean – she does see dead people, actual dead people – she's a_ patologistic_."

"Arthur, I don't think that's the word you're looking for," said Sherlock rather slowly.

"A mortician, perhaps?" interrupted Douglas.

"No, she's a doctor for the dead – actual – dead people! Not ghosts, though that would be fun," said Arthur rather enthusiastically, though his face dropped at the outburst, his features rather pale.

"I didn't know the dead needed doctors – being dead doesn't exactly require quick medical attention," remarked Douglas, almost causing Sherlock to snort, but he just tried to look affronted instead.

Caroline's head popped in, "Arthur, could you please not neglect our other passengers?" she said clearly annoyed.

"And you cannot deal with them with yourself, I suppose?" said Douglas drily.

"Oh, mum – there's a mortician on board," said Arthur still being rather riled up. There was something wrong, very wrong by the look of him, as Sherlock had seen this reaction before a million times before – it couldn't be, though -

"Really, Arthur I do think that's not the word you're looking for," said Sherlock not using the actual word, as Douglas eyed him meaningfully.

He wanted for Arthur to go on about whatever it was that was bothering him, and not to be interrogated by Douglas.

"What's the word then?" said Douglas grinning.

"Why on earth is that important?" said Caroline scathingly ignoring the two men, and focusing on her son.

"I'd say it was very important – actually - in fact I'd say we _need_ that right now," said Arthur rather turning a great shade of red, at which Sherlock noted his trembling hands, and the fact that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"What are you on about?" said Caroline who'd gotten in properly sizing her son up.

"You remember when we had that Mr Leeman on board – well – err - we've got another one, and I thought it was just a heart attack or something, except – the blood starting to – well – and– he's sort of got a hole in his chest."

A hush descended over the crew.

"No, wonder you neglected him, Arthur," said Douglas humourlessly.

"Where is he?" said Sherlock.

"The toilet," said Arthur with a tremble, "The door wasn't locked, you see, and I-,"

There was a shriek in the distance.

"Did _you_ lock the door, Arthur?" said Caroline who looked nervous, though rather sharply at her son.

"Oh, I forgot about that," said Arthur with a little laugh, looking like he'd faint any second.

This was probably the sign Sherlock was waiting for.


End file.
